


Rituals

by Astarloa



Series: Eight-Track Quest [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: Follows immediately on fromSleight Lifeand probably won't make a whole lot of sense unless you've read that one first.Fast-forward five years: the Winchesters have settled down somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. Sam is a victim of umbrella theft, there may or may not be tiny water demons living in the bathroom, and it never stops raining. Oh, and then there’s the whole angst and lack of communication thing. Yeah. It’s going about as well as you’d expect.





	

The morning light is dim and grey.

Dean wakes up slowly, suspended in a half-drifting state somewhere below the surface. The apartment’s quiet. He listens to the sound of the rain for a while and watches stray motes of dust as they float past the window, stuck on an eight-track quest to nowhere. 

He shuts his eyes and inhales, trying to gather up his scattered pieces, before turning over. The thudding hurt of last night has levelled off and become something more manageable, a dull ache now rather than actual pain, but still. Mornings are hard. 

Sweat prickles against the small of Dean’s back, the warmth of his blanket cocoon growing oppressive. He kicks it off and sits up, riding out the sudden head rush. Swinging himself over to the edge of the bed, Dean settles his good leg on the floor and wiggles his toes back and forth, reassures himself that they’re still there. He tries to ignore the familiar sensation of tilting forward, or maybe it’s of the carpet rising up towards him in a lint-flecked wave, and focuses instead on his centre of gravity; gives his head time to work out all over again that it’s closer to his chest now than his hips. 

It seems to Dean that his mind shouldn’t need much of a reminder at this point, but what does he know? Not as much as he should, all things considered. Go figure. As everyone – _Sam, Sam, Sam, sometimes other people too, mostly doctors whose names Dean can never quite fix ‘cause they don’t really count, the disposable people never have, there were Bobby and his Dad once, yeah, of course, but then again who knows, it all feels like such a long time ago now_ \- insists on telling him, recovery is a _process_. Unless the term is being used in connection with chemical cheese products, Dean doesn’t want to hear it. 

Once the vertigo wears off, Dean leans forward and inspects his residual limb, checking for damage. The stump’s shrunk a lot since his surgery. Angry red scar tissue fading first to pink and then mottled white, the flesh that remains contracting and changing shape. The skin looks okay, Dean decides, giving his leg a final pat. Slightly inflamed and blistered maybe, but nothing he can’t deal with. 

Dean huffs out a relieved breath he wasn’t aware of holding. 

Because last night? Okay, so yeah. Sam might have had a valid point about staying healthy. Not that Dean has any intention of telling him that, of course. If there’s one thing Sam doesn’t need, in Dean’s well-considered opinion, it’s encouragement of his mother henning routine. 

Pot, kettle, saucepan, black. Whatever.

Dean lowers himself to the floor and crawls over to the corner of the room where a pair of black, forearm style crutches are propped up against a chair. Mornings are definitely for crutching – which is totally a word - because dude. No way he’s going through the rigmarole of putting on his leg just to shower. Given the way it was wobbling yesterday, he’s probably due for another adjustment anyway. 

Truth of it is, Dean still feels more comfortable with crutches most of the time. 

At least, when he’s in the apartment. 

Being outside, around people who aren’t Sam? That’s a whole different story. There’s something about not having his hands free that makes Dean’s skin feel too small and tight, like a demon screaming and smoking inside a paint-wet trap. _Been there, done that, don’t want to go back_. Dean frowns as the thought repeats in a heavy, metal-wheeled clatter, gives his head a firm shake, trying to dislodge it. And there’s another happy memory to start the day off right. 

Dean manoeuvres himself upright and cracks the door open. He scans the hallway for signs of Sam, and then scurries across to the bathroom, silent as a goddamn motherfucking ninja in boxer shorts. The latch Sam had insisted on removing and Dean had screwed right back on again jams shut with a satisfied clink. 

The bathroom’s tiny, as worn down as the rest of the building, teetering out on the ledge of a decrepit abyss. Hairline cracks thread their way across chipped, checkerboard tiles, playing a frozen game of tag with the dodgy, pre-war plumbing that’s kept pinned to the wall by rusted brackets. The most that can be said about the bathroom is that it’s usually clean. Which is why, when Dean goes to splash some water on his face, he hesitates at the sight of the pale green slime gathered around the metal plughole at the bottom of the basin.

Huh. 

So, that’s weird. 

He runs the water for a bit, watching the slime disappear with a mild sense of disgust. It’s a long way off the worst thing he’s had to deal with – that honour is still reserved for the bloated, week old carcass of an _Onikuma_ they’d been called out to inspect by a hysterical hobby farmer whose chickens had turned feral and pecked it to death - but still. Weird. And kind of gross.

The pipes beneath the sink rattle, give a loud, belching gurgle, and then fall silent. 

Dean eyes them warily and decides his face doesn’t need washing _that_ badly. The shower will do fine.

He looks up and meets the face staring back at him from the mirror above the basin. It’s slightly gaunt, lines fanning out from eyes shadowed with inky thumbprints. The lower half is hidden behind stubble that’s reached beard territory, collected two hundred dollars, and kept right on going for a gleeful victory lap. Dean scratches his chin and figures he should probably do something about it soon. Like, not right now, obviously, but definitely tomorrow. Definitely. Or maybe the day after. 

The mirror image tries out a cocky grin, just for old times’ sakes, a private joke between friends, but falters and never quite gets there. 

Turning away, Dean settles himself in the shower. He pulls off his underwear and tosses them somewhere in the general direction of the sink. 

Dean’s lip curls at the familiar press of the slick, molded-plastic shower chair against his thighs. He hates that thing. Of course, he’s also less than enthusiastic about Sam having to drag his wet, soapy body off the floor when Dean loses his balance and cracks his head on the way down. Once was more than enough, thanks very much. 

So shower chair it is. 

Despite the weak pressure and lukewarm water, Dean stays there for a long time.

The water feels good against his skin, washes away the last of the wooziness. He scrubs a hand over his face, eyes closed against the spray, and thinks about the unwelcome conversation he’s gotta have with Sam. ‘Cause it was a dick move to let Sam think he’s back hunting again. No question. But somehow, when Dean had tried to explain what was going on, the words had become a heavy, constricting weight inside him, refusing to squeeze past his throat and be made real. Sam’s anger has always been easier to deal with when it’s directed towards something Dean hasn’t done – or at least, not quite in the way Sam imagines – than what Dean is _actually_ doing. And doesn’t intend to stop. 

Or doesn’t want to stop, and there’s the kicker right there. ‘Cause he will if Sam asks.

For an ex-hunter, Dean thinks sourly, towelling himself dry, his brother’s got some real weird hang-ups about breaking the law. Especially now they’re ‘sposed to have gone legit.


End file.
